Mr. Erin indeed had cause to be grateful to this unknown person, since he had (though not without reluctance) given permission for the publication of the papers, which had accordingly been advertised to appear in a handsome quarto at two guineas. They included all the documents, the ‘Lear’ (of which unfortunately three leaves were missing) and a few pages of ‘Hamlet.’ These last differed but little from those of the accepted text, a circumstance which did not escape the notice of the enemy, who did not hesitate to aver that the forger, whoever he was, had found ‘Hamlet’ too difficult a nut to crack.
The best reply, as Mr. Erin wisely concluded, to so coarse a sarcasm was the publication of Shakespeare’s Deed of Trust, conveying the ‘Lear’ to John Hemynge, in which he said, ‘Should this bee everre agayne Impryntedd, I doe order tyhatt itte bee so doun from this mye true written Playe, and nott from those now prynted’—an injunction which, had there been an entire copy extant, would doubtless have included the ‘Hamlet’ also.
To the ‘Miscellaneous papers and legal instruments, under the hand and seal of William Shakespeare, including the tragedy of “King Lear“ and a small fragment of “Hamlet,”’ was prefixed a preface by Mr. Erin himself, setting forth the circumstances under which they had come into his possession, challenging criticism and defying inquiry. This publication was of course the crucial test. While our opinions are expressed viva voce, or even with pen and ink, they are of little consequence to the world at large, however much they may affect our little circle of friends and enemies. I know many persons who might have remained in possession of great works of genius in manuscript had they not been so indiscreet as to print them; the annalist’s sarcasm of nisi imperasset applies to authors as well as kings.
The book evoked a storm of censure. ‘My eyes will scarcely permit me to read it,’ wrote Malone (’posturing as a sick lion,’ sneered Mr. Erin), ‘but I have read enough to convince me that the whole production is a forgery.’ Others fell foul of the style, the ideas, the very punctuation of the discovered manuscripts. They acknowledged that the phraseology was simple, but added that ‘it was that sort of simplicity that belongs to the fool.’ As it was some time before the advocates of the discovery could get out their rejoinders—with which many of those who had signed the certificate were busy—Mr. Samuel Erin had for the present a pretty time of it. He was like a man caught in a downpour of hailstones without an umbrella. He never blenched, however, for a single instant; one would have thought that waterproofs and overalls had been invented before his time for his especial behalf. But poor Margaret trembled and shivered. How could people be so wicked as to say such things of Willie! She would not have been so distressed had she not seen that he shrank from these stings himself. Womanlike, she concealed her own pain and strove to comfort him.
‘As for these imputations upon your honour, Willie, they are not worth thinking of; it is as though they called you a negro, when every one who has ever seen you knows you to be a white man. Still less need you trouble yourself about their criticisms; for what can it matter to you whether the manuscript, or the printed copy, of Shakespeare’s works has the greater worth?’
‘That’s true,’ assented the young fellow; but by his knitted brows and downcast looks she knew that it did matter to him nevertheless.
‘This is what I have always feared for you, should you publish a book of your own,’ she went on earnestly. ‘You are so sensitive, darling. How thankful I am that Shakespeare (who can afford to smile at it) is bearing the brunt of all this, and not you!’
Then came the ‘rejoinders,’ like sunshine after storm. ‘There was not an ingenuous character or disinterested individual in the whole circle of literature,’ wrote one enthusiastic partisan, ‘to whom the manuscripts had been subjected who was not convinced of their authenticity.’ They had ‘not only convinced the scholar and the antiquary, but the paper-maker.’ As to the secrecy observed with respect to their origin and possessor, ‘what becomes of the acumen of the critic if such details are necessary to establish the genuineness of such a production? His occupation is gone.’ As to the intrinsic merits of the ‘Lear,’ the seal of Shakespeare’s genius was stamped upon it. ‘A wit so pregnant, an imagination so unbounded, a knowledge so intuitive of the weakness of the human heart as was here exhibited could belong to no other man. If it was not his, it was inspiration itself.’
‘Here, indeed,’ thought William Henry, ‘is something like criticism. This is an independent opinion with which the carping of prejudice or personal malevolence is not to be mentioned in the same breath.’